


The Shape of My Beautiful Lies

by Caledonia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF!Merlin, Boys Kissing, Canon Era, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Magic Revealed, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22339213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caledonia/pseuds/Caledonia
Summary: Merlin’s fingertips were thieves. They mapped the surface of Arthur’s body in fleeting, casual touches, and they stole. Merlin was not allowed to touch his king, not in the ways that he wanted; so when he went about his duties he made every contact an unrequited crime.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 60
Kudos: 507
Collections: The Merlin/Arthur Kiss Fest 2019





	The Shape of My Beautiful Lies

**Author's Note:**

> angst angst angsty angst. Merlin's turn, this time. This is another phone-written fic, so it may be riddled with mistakes and I take full responsibility for them.
> 
> To the mods: Thank you for this fest. I love it. I love you. I especially love amnesty week.

Merlin’s fingertips were thieves. They mapped the surface of Arthur’s body in fleeting, casual touches, and they _stole_. From his shoulders, they took the glow of the autumn sun, low on the horizon. They memorised the golden-honey whisper of Arthur’s silken hair. They absorbed the electric hum of the lighting flash buried within his lethal muscles. Merlin was not allowed to touch his king, not in the ways that he wanted; so when he went about his duties he made every contact an unrequited crime. 

When night fell and Merlin was alone in the dark with nothing but his lies and his magic and his betrayal, raw and ugly and _necessary_ , Merlin would touch himself with those thieving fingertips, and he would pretend.

Then he would sleep, and he would dream of his king touching him. Either with passion or as the hand that held the axe - there was no in-between. In Merlin’s dreams, Arthur was either his lover or his executioner, and the lines between them blurred. 

In the morning he would dress, covering up his traitor’s skin, wrapping his scarf around his neck and binding his secrets closer, closer, closer to his heart, and he would go to face his king. He would bring Arthur his breakfast and lie to him. He would help Arthur dress and lie to him. He would give Arthur advice and lie to him. He would love Arthur the only way he was allowed to, and he would lie to him. With every breath and every word, Merlin would lie to his king, and with every simple touch, every single brush of skin on skin, his fingers would steal _._

Merlin knew it could not last. Every lie was a curl of smoke within him, and his eyes were occluded, his judgement skewed. One day he would no longer be able to live with the lies, destiny or no destiny. It had to come to an end, eventually. And when it did there was no fanfare. There was no proclamation, no parade, no pyre, no axe. There was only a touch.

One single touch to turn all of Merlin's lies into truths, and to reveal the thievery of his fingertips. 

[--]

Merlin woke and he could taste magic in the air, like breathing in too close to a fire or like biting down too hard and, suddenly, blood. Merlin dressed fast and emerged to find the kingdom of Camelot on its knees. There was a thick haze over everything, stale and dusty. Every person he passed was sleeping but otherwise unharmed, and he ran, he ran, _he ran_ to Arthur’s chambers. Empty. Merlin ran again, his feet carrying him to the throne room without conscious thought.

There was Arthur, bound to the throne with heavy ropes and sleeping soundly. His head to one side, his lips slightly parted. Anger rose in Merlin, hot and treacherous. 

“If you are not sleeping you must have magic,” the man beside the throne said, turning to face Merlin. He was shorter than Merlin and clothed in a dark cloak, the hood of which put his face into shadow. 

“Yes.”

"If anything happens to me, they will all die,” he said, with relish for Merlin's helplessness.

Was it a lie? Merlin did not know, though he should have learned by now to recognise the shape and colour of them. He could feel the spell heavy in the air around him, but he could not feel the form of it. If he could not undo the spell, he could not save them.

“What do you want?”

“I want to bring magic back to Camelot,” he said, and he took Arthur’s face between his fingers, straightening Arthur’s head only to let it fall again. Merlin’s heart was a tidal wave in his chest, the too-rough grip of the stranger a red brand upon Arthur’s skin. Merlin could feel his hands tingling with the power he was struggling to reign in.

“I am magic, and I am already here, at the heart of the kingdom.”

The hooded man laughed; his shadowed face towards Merlin, “I want your king, then.”

“And yet you are afraid to fight him.”

“Afraid?”

“What else could you be, if you can only face him when he is tied up and sleeping?”

“And what else could _you_ be if you can only admit your magic when he is asleep?”

“He knows,” Merlin lied because the truth was unbearable. 

“Oh, does he now?”

The man turned his back on Merlin and Arthur stirred, his eyes coming slowly open. He struggled against his bonds, every lethal muscle fighting desperately against his captivity. Merlin’s hands ached to touch him, his ears ached for his laugh, his heart ached for the things Arthur had never said to him, and never could. Merlin knew it had to end and end it would. Save Arthur’s life, save Camelot, but lose everything. It was no choice, but it was Merlin’s alone.

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice, morning-rough, confusion sneaking in at the edges.

"This servant of yours claims that there is magic at the heart of Camelot,” the hooded man said, laughter again, but fear, too, Merlin could taste it.

“Magic? The heart?” the look of utter confusion on Arthur’s face proved Merlin’s words to be a lie. The hooded man laughed again, knowing all he needed. Merlin felt a pain in his heart, ice-sharp; the disbelief on Arthur’s face a testament to the strength and shape of Merlin’s beautiful lies. When Arthur said his name again it was in a voice that Merlin did not recognise, “Merlin?”

“I knew it was a lie,” the stranger said.

“If I kill you now, will the rest of the kingdom waken?”

“I will take your King, and Camelot will be a place of magic once more, as it should have always been."

“Will the rest of them waken?”

The man laughed again, turning his attention back to Merlin. 

Merlin stood alone; his heart shattered and the truth working its way through the hairline cracks. He stood alone, and he faced down the threat.

“If you beat me, they will waken,” the man nodded, an underestimation and a brief moment of acquiescence. He seemed to be enjoying the challenge.

“Merlin!” Arthur resumed struggling, his face red, his shoulders wrenching in an attempt to loosen the knots. Merlin walked slowly, feeling the stranger's eyes on him, and he touched Arthur’s face once, lightly. He touched his king the way he longed to, like a lover. His fingers ran over the red marks left by the stranger's hand, tracing down his neck, feeling the pulse of Arthur's racing heart, he poured himself into the touch, fleeting as it was, trying to steal just one more moment of warmth before the end. A brush, fast as forgetting, over Arthur's bottom lip, Merlin's face no doubt awash with all of his stolen touches. 

“Merlin!” Arthur's shout followed Merlin as he walked away. Merlin surrendered to the magic within him; he slowly unwound his scarf, unwinding his lies, and he turned back to face his king.

“Who were you?” Merlin’s asked the stranger, his voice a whisper, the whole kingdom silent.

“Were?”

Merlin could feel the power buzzing like lightning beneath the surface of his skin, the tips of his fingers burning with fire. He looked back at the hooded man, Arthur’s eyes on him, frozen, frightened. 

“I am giving you a chance to say your name for the last time,” Merlin said, hearing the threat in his own voice, the low timber it took on when he let his magic too close to the surface. When he became himself, finally, “I am giving you a chance to be yourself before you die.” 

“Merlin you can’t fight him!” Arthur screamed - the unknown lie so harsh in his lovely mouth, “release me. I demand you release me! I will fight you. It is my kingdom. _I will fight you_!”

“Tell me who you were,” Merlin’s voice so sure and strong. His eyes on Arthur who was still struggling as if he had lost his kingdom already. Arthur's eyes hollow with fear. 

The last touch of Arthur’s skin was seared against Merlin’s fingers, and beneath that, his magic burned. 

When the stranger lowered his hood he was only a man. A man with a savage face full of rage and a decades’ old grudge against Arthur’s father and against Camelot. His eyes were shadowed by all of his friends who had died at Uther’s hand. Merlin wondered whether peace could be reached, but the man’s rage was thick in the air. If he was willing to use magic against the king he was no friend of Camelot. Arthur struggled, still shouting, but Merlin needed him to be silent; to be there and aware and to see, finally, what it was he had been employing as a servant for so many years.

Merlin looked to Arthur, blue eyes meeting blue, and Arthur stopped struggling, his face full of misery.

“Your name-”

The stranger’s laugh was cold and loud, the smell of rage like sour sweat, and he raised his hands towards Merlin, his mouth forming not his name, but a spell. A spell he never got a chance to utter, for Merlin had raised his own hands, the magic surging, his fingertips conductors for the power within him, and the man flew through the air, his voice the call of a hawk on the wind, distant then gone. When he hit the floor he was dead, and all of Merlin’s secrets were dead, too.

All but one.

Merlin calmly bent to lift his scarf from the ground. The air cleared as the spell the sorcerer had used lifted. Merlin wrapped the scarf around his neck, feeling the fire within him return to a glowing ember, buried deep in his heart. On the throne Arthur sat, limp. Merlin tucked away the end of his scarf, making sure there were no loose threads to catch upon anything, and then he walked back to his king.

His hands were gentle as he untied the ropes, his fingers brushing cold against Arthur’s skin. Arthur was breathing heavily, his eyes on Merlin, unblinking. When Arthur was freed he stayed seated, still staring. Merlin could not bear to look at him with all of his lies so real between them. Merlin turned away, unsure of where he would go now, but Arthur’s hand was tight upon him.

His king’s hand, so large and rough and warm, his fingers meeting easily around Merlin’s thin wrist. Merlin absorbed the touch, the heat of Arthur’s skin against his, stealing again something that was not his. Was this the last time Arthur would touch him? Would the next thing Arthur held so easily be the axe? Or the torch for the pyre? Merlin swallowed the sob in his throat, turning his face away as a tear fell.

He should not be so weak before his king, but the cracks upon his heart had fallen open and Merlin could feel nothing within himself but the hollowed-out shape of every lie he had ever told Arthur. Skeletons on the landscape.

"Arthur, I-" Merlin was terrified now, unable to stop himself from shaking. Arthur turned Merlin to him, his face unreadable, and his other hand came up. Merlin flinched, bracing for Arthur's hand striking him, his breath held.

But Arthur did not hit him. His calloused fingers were gentle at the side of Merlin's face, his thumb against Merlin's jaw.

"How long have you been so frightened of me?" Arthur said, tilting Merlin's face towards him. Merlin did not open his eyes, afraid of what he might see. Arthur's thumb moved across his cheekbone, and his other hand tightened at Merlin's wrist.

"How can you have lived here with such a secret? What must that have taken from you?"

Merlin felt Arthur's hand at his throat, palm flat, fingers touching the hair at the back of his neck. He felt the other hand release his wrist and appear on the other side of his neck. He could not open his eyes. Arthur's thumbs against his chin, pushing into the soft flesh beneath his jaw. His hands moved by millimetres, achingly slowly, until Merlin's ears were framed, Arthur's fingers curled in Merlin's hair. 

Arthur's lips on his lips, a kiss stolen from the thief. Merlin pulled back, eyes open, startled out of his fear. Arthur's arms raised, hands caught in the act of a caress which no longer existed. Nothing in all the realms of heaven or earth breathed.

"I would never have told you," Merlin said, "if I had had any other choice."

"I understand why you lied," Arthur replied, lowering his hands.

"Am I to be killed?" 

"Before you asked his name, you touched my face," Arthur's hand mimicked Merlin's, and he smiled a smile so real that Merlin's heart slammed against the walls of his chest, "and everything I need to know about your loyalty was there, in your fingertips."

All of Merlin's stolen touches, every split second of loving Arthur how Arthur deserved to be loved. Each fleeting brush of skin against skin. Every spring morning, every summer afternoon, every chill autumn night, and every winter sunset that Merlin's thieving hands had taken from Arthur's body. Merlin had tried to give it all back. An apology. Before the end.

Arthur reached for him, and Merlin obliged, stepping in to the circle of his king's protective arms. Arthur's hands on his back, fingers on his spine, Merlin's hands still on Arthur's forearms, for once in his life not stealing.

Arthur's lips on his again, parted, his tongue greedy against Merlin's lips. Merlin's tongue touching Arthur's, slipping shyly into Arthur's mouth, touching in a way that Merlin had only dreamed of. Arthur's hands under Merlin's tunic, thumbs grazing against Merlin's bony hips. Merlin's lips on Arthur's strong neck, Arthur's head thrown back, so trusting, his breathing heavy and uneven. Merlin's hands on Arthur's skin the way they ached for.

On Arthur's bare skin, unapologetic.

Merlin's fingers claimed the parts of Arthur that they had only ever known before as thieves.

In time, Merlin would stop dreaming of Arthur holding torches or an axe. In time, Merlin would forget his fear in the face of all of Arthur's generous love. In time, Merlin's hands would forget how to steal, having gotten used to being the rightful owners. In time, his eyes would relearn the old tricks, and as Arthur learned to rule over a kingdom of magic, and as Merlin learned to rule by his side, the only thing they would ever steal from each other were glances, heated, and full of promise.

**Author's Note:**

> As always I would love to know what you think.


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